Another gentleman detached himself from the crowd and joined them. “I say, Giles,” he remarked plaintively, “whatever has poor Fotherington done to offend you?” The newcomer was not much taller than Melissa herself, rake-thin, dark of hair and complexion, and exquisitely turned out. He ran a glance casually from Melissa’s feet to the disheveled sweep of raven hair falling across her breast. Melissa, with a start, pulled her eyes from her unwitting fascination with her rescuer and distractedly began to loop her hair up behind her again. The two worn valises lay overturned where she’d dropped them.
“I see,” the newcomer said thoughtfully. He added confidentially to Melissa, “Candidly, dear lady, he’s a bit of a swine when he’s bosky, our Fotherington. I’d like to say he improves when sober, but it’s not strictly true. Do let me render you his apology. Sir Adrian Hawkhurst, at your service.” He executed a perfect bow with feline grace and smiled in a way that would have been unforgivable impertinence in a man less elegant and not so darkly handsome.
Melissa began to stammer something about its being a matter of no importance. He interrupted her gallantly. “Nonsense. A dreadful experience.” He lifted her hand as if it were made of glass and began to pat it soothingly. “Let me escort you to your room. Such a lovely lady shouldn’t be alone in this rowdy mob.”
Her rescuer cut him off. “Go to Fotherington, Adrian,” the tall man ordered with some sternness. “I’m sure the poor chap needs you.” This was said without a glance toward the doorway, where the unfortunate Fotherington was reeling to his feet, assisted by the catcalls and whistles of a gang of small boys.
Sir Adrian sighed deeply. “Really, Giles,” he expostulated, “too dog in the manger of you.”
“Adrian, Fotherington,” Giles commanded, unmoved.
“Oh, very well.” Sir Adrian’s magnificent self-confidence was not one whit diminished. He spotted the unsteady Fotherington as that worthy lurched toward the door. “The things I do for my friends,” he grumbled. Since he had Melissa’s hand still, so to speak, in hand, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to raise it to his lips and kiss it lingeringly. Then it was only reasonable that he should gaze up longingly from deeply fringed, melting brown eyes and whisper in an urgent undertone, “We may meet again, lovely lady. I shall dare to hope so, though the very devil should stand between.” He might have continued in this vein for some time but caught a fulminating stare from his companion and decided to take his leave.
Giles picked up Melissa’s bags, ignoring her as she reached for them. “You’re one of the coach passengers,” he declared, somehow making it an order. “Your room will be upstairs.” Melissa could imagine his saying, “It’s a fine day,” in just such an indisputable tone and waiting for the sky to clear obligingly. Without a further word or a backward glance he carried her bags away.
Since he’d possessed himself of all her belongings, Melissa had no choice but to follow. By some alchemy the crowd, so formidable before, melted away as he approached.
Melissa walked behind him and seethed. Arrogant, critical, self-righteous, know-it-all! It would serve him right if her rooms weren’t upstairs at all. She resented his well-bred impersonal air, and she resented even further the calm efficiency with which he solved her problems. The knowledge that she was being completely unfair didn’t change her emotions in the least.
She had just decided that his coat had a dandified look about it and had concluded (inaccurately) that the price of one of his cravats would pay her salary for a year when they reached the foot of the stairs. Confronted with his face, worn and lined by God only knew what unsavory experiences, she had to stop thinking of him, even in the privacy of her own mind, as a wealthy fop.
He handed over her bags. Whereas Sir Adrian had courteously avoided dwelling on the poverty of her appearance, this man took it all in, she thought, and summed up her total worth to a shilling. No polite shifting of his eyes away from the darn they both knew perfectly well was on her skirt.
“I don’t think you’ll be troubled again,” he said in a voice of boredom and indifference. “I suggest you remain locked in your room for the rest of the evening, unless you wish a repetition of the incident.”
She could hear Sir Adrian’s laugh outside the inn, followed by the sound of a man being dunked protestingly into the icy water of the horse trough. The ghost of a smile crossed the tall man’s face. Before she could prevent herself, Melissa answered it with her own amusement. A sudden glint of laughter leaped between them as their eyes met. Then, just as suddenly, Melissa turned away brusquely, angry with herself, breaking the little thread of intimacy that had stretched between them.
But an instant later, duty-bound, she had to face him again. She couldn’t in good conscience leave without expressing some gratitude. His actions had been above reproach. It was only her own stubborn pride that made her resentful. Blast the man anyway; he was entirely too acute. She had the distinct impression that he could read everything she was thinking and that it amused him.
“Thank you very much for your kind assistance,” she said, like a naughty schoolgirl reciting a rehearsed apology. Then she spoiled it all by adding tartly, “There was no need to tell me to lock my door. I assure you I don’t want closer contact with
anyone
tonight.” The emphasis on “anyone” made it clear she included her rescuer. “Still, I’m sure your advice is kindly meant.” Her voice said she was sure of no such thing.
“Honored to be of service to you,” he responded with perfect ease. “It was my pleasure.” The secret amusement in his eyes deepened.
Melissa, knowing herself outclassed, reluctantly abandoned the unequal struggle and sought the sanctuary of her room in the upper story. There she spent the rest of the evening composing a list of the things she
should
have said to him.
Chapter 3
...
set on a cliff with an extensive wood between. There’s even a lake with an island and a ruined tiny summerhouse. In the walled rose garden ...
Excerpt from the letter of Melissa Rivenwood to Cecilia Luffington, June 4, 1818
Melissa was once again waiting for someone else to decide her destiny. She watched the pattern of sun from the long windows crawl slowly across the blue rug. Mostly she remembered the other times: waiting a day and a night and a day again while her beloved adoptive father died; her adoptive mother’s death in childbed, so long ago; the long wait while Uncle Gregory satisfied himself that an adopted child could be legally excluded from the terms of the will; an afternoon of waiting until Mrs. Brody saw fit to inform her of the oppressive terms of employment her uncle had agreed upon.
She wanted desperately to stay here at Vinton Manor. The wide lawns and topiary trees, the soft-footed maids, even the sunny high bedroom she’d been given were different from anything she’d ever known. Nothing could be more remote from the bare attic on the noisy London street or, for that matter, from her small and cozy bedroom in the stone rectory. Even so, it felt like coming home. Vinton Manor seemed to call forth a deep response in her, as a violin will wring a note from fine crystal.
So she sat in the corner bedroom that might be hers and watched the afternoon pass. Since her arrival the evening before, she had been rehearsing in her mind all the questions they were likely to ask her and forming answers to satisfy them. She reviewed her qualifications. She was calm. But absentmindedly she dug her fingers again and again into the soft stuffed arm of her chair.
The summons came: “The master will see you now in the library.” She followed the maid through the halls, oblivious to the beauty of her surroundings or her own image, pale and straight-backed, reflected in the mirrors lining the long gallery.
The library was a vast cavern of a room with long rows of books in glass cases. Heavy velvet-covered red chairs flanked low tables of mahogany. On the floor was a Turkey carpet of topaz and ruby. The far section of the room, where windows ran floor to ceiling, was raised a few feet and separated by a phalanx of walnut book cabinets and a long, ornately carved wood railing. In this wide alcove, partially screened from the rest of the room, was a sort of office. Her employer sat at a desk there. He moved papers from one pile to another and looked up. As he politely came to his feet, Melissa very distinctly felt her heart stop beating.
Small disasters make us tear our hair and cry. At mere catastrophe we scream and moan. When all is lost beyond hope, it is very easy to proceed sensibly. Melissa did so, feeling numb.
“Ah. Then you
are
Melissa Rivenwood. I thought as much. So you’re to be companion to my aunt.”
Melissa crossed the room silently, climbed the short flight of stairs, and stood before his desk. She nodded. Her employer was the man from the inn at Cockleford, of course, the one called Giles. There was a certain fatality about it all, she saw.
“Sit down,” he said abruptly. “You don’t look twenty-five.”
The non sequitur made Melissa blink. Without thinking she replied indignantly, “I am.”
“I don’t doubt it. It was merely an observation. I wondered last night if you might be the new addition to our household. It seemed too much to hope.”
Melissa assumed he was being sarcastic. “As to what happened in Cockleford, I assure you, my lord, that it is not my usual practice to—”
“I know all that. Think no more of it. Or, if anything, blame me. It never occurred to me that my employees would travel post. Young ladies unprotected in a public inn will be exposed to insult.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melissa snapped irritably. The position was obviously a lost cause, so she put no guard on her tongue. “I was grateful for your help. But really, it was hardly, necessary. I’m very capable of taking care of myself. My lord, if I was impolite to you it was merely—”
“A sensible precaution upon meeting strange men in the public room of a common inn. I would have expected nothing else.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, my lord.”
“This continued elevation to the peerage, Miss Rivenwood, while flattering—”
Melissa’s eyebrows flew up. “You mean you’re not an earl?”
“Alas no. Is there any reason I should be?”
“I beg your pardon. It’s just that Mr. Biddle told me I was to be employed by the Earl of Keptford.” Formless suspicions began to curl around her mind. “This
is
the seat of the Earl of Keptford, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” Giles informed her. “Technically, as it happens, you’re hired by the earl. But for business purposes you have to come to me. I handle all the earl’s affairs.”
“May I inquire why?” asked Melissa. Was the earl out of the country, or incapable in some way, or even ... mad perhaps?
“The earl has not yet attained his seventh birthday, Miss Rivenwood.”
“Oh!” After an instant of surprise Melissa felt a strong desire to giggle, which she managed to control. So the nobleman she was destined to bowl over with her surpassing loveliness was still in the nursery.
“Robert, seventh earl, is my nephew. You were brought here to be companion to his great-aunt, the dowager Countess of Harforth, the Lady Dorothy, who also happens to be my aunt. I am Giles Tarsin, late of the army and more particularly lately seconded to Wellington’s staff, brother of the last earl, uncle of the present one, and also his guardian and manager of this estate. Several prominent members of the Whig party will vouch for me. Do you find my credentials to be in order, Miss Rivenwood?”
“Quite.” All this verbiage was unnecessary. Let him send her away and be done with it.
“Mr. Biddle’s discretion is very nearly absolute, but he could well have granted you a little more background on the ménage here. Of course, he may have assumed no one would come if given the full story.” Giles’s eyes rested on the girl’s face thoughtfully for a minute. “Regarding your own credentials ...”
Melissa folded her hands in her lap. This was more what she’d anticipated. But was this serious consideration, or was the infuriating man only amusing himself?
Giles unearthed a folded letter from the pile of papers on the desk. He smoothed out the creases against the wood and studied it a bit. “According to this, you have been a junior mistress in London for the last six years.”
“Yes.”
“And you taught?”
“The French language.”
“Hmm. Biddle says you’re fluent, so we’ll take his word for that. Why did you leave?”
Melissa thought: Bad food, a hard, cold bed, and that vulgar penny-pinching old tyrant, carping at me night and noon. What she said was: “I received but three pounds six a year, sir. And it was not a pleasant position.”
“You obtained no letter of recommendation?”
Melissa’s stomach, which had been cautiously un-tensing, did a sick little flip-flop at this. “I believe I made that clear to Mr. Biddle. Mrs. Brody, the headmistress, had such trouble keeping staff that she never gave recommendations. It was her method of holding her employees.”
“Yes. I see. Biddle does say that here. Why did you take work in such a place?”
“I was a student there from the age of fifteen onward, and upon completion of my courses Mrs. Brody offered to take me on as junior mistress. It’s not so easy to find a position at nineteen, especially if your school won’t speak for you,” Melissa concluded with some bitterness.
Giles aligned the corners of a stack of papers on the desk. Biddle had included some pungent comments on the school that made “not a pleasant position” sound like understatement. Unobtrusively he gave Melissa a lengthy inspection. Very nervous, he thought, and hiding it well. He watched a pulse beating rapidly under the curve of her throat. She had poise. That would please Dorothy. Dorothy liked to disconcert people, but only if there was a challenge to it. He folded and refolded the letter idly. “You have no relatives?”
In the dim light of the inn he’d been impressed. In the rich slanting light of the library he was sure of it. The girl was a real beauty. What on earth was such a woman doing going out as companion? Madness multiplied. Madness that any relative had allowed such a child to seek her living this way. And madness that no man had married her, penniless though she must be, for that black mane alone or for the line of her jaw. He experienced an impulse to reach out and caress her cheek very gently, just as one will touch a beautiful statue. None of this showed on his face.